THE LAST QUIET OF MAY HOLLOWAY

(A Short Novel in Five Parts)

Part I – The Funeral

Only I came to my husband’s funeral.
Not our son, not our daughter, not a single grandchild—just me, standing beside the coffin while the wind clawed through the chapel courtyard as if even the weather couldn’t bear to stay.

The funeral director looked uneasy, his eyes darting between the empty pews and my face.
“Would you like us to wait a few more minutes, Mrs. Holloway?”

I shook my head. “No. Start. George would have hated a delay.”

He was punctual even in illness—pills by the clock, news at six, slippers folded neatly at the foot of the bed. A man of order, of quiet dignity, and now, of solitude.

The pastor read his verses without conviction. The lilies looked too bright; the casket, too polished. I kept waiting for George to laugh and tell me the whole thing was absurd, that death didn’t need ceremony, just truth. But laughter was a luxury that had already left our house.

I sat alone in the front row, five empty chairs on either side.
I should have been angry. Instead, I felt hollow, like grief had already carved me out long before this day.

A message had come that morning:
Peter, our son—Sorry, Mom. Something came up. Can’t make it.
No call. No explanation.

Celia hadn’t even texted. Her last voicemail still rang in my ears:
“Mom, I really can’t cancel my nail appointment. You know how anxious I get with reschedules. Tell Dad I’ll visit him next week.”
Next week.
As if the dead wait.

The service ended quickly, more from emptiness than efficiency.
The coffin was lowered. Dust met wood; wood met silence.
The groundskeeper waited, polite and distant, spade in hand.
I stood there until the last echo faded, until the earth began to crust around the edges of the grave.

George Holloway.
Beloved husband. Father. Forgotten.

The word clung to me all the way home.

The house was too quiet, too preserved.
His recliner sat untouched, his slippers side by side, the remote exactly where he’d left it.
I opened a bottle of wine—not cheap, the kind I used to save for guests who no longer came—and poured a glass.

I scrolled through my phone.
Celia had posted two hours ago: Girls’ brunch! Bottomless mimosas! Living our best lives!
Peter, meanwhile, posed on the ninth hole, captioned: Killer swing. Perfect weather. Deals made.

I stared until the screen blurred. Then I set it down, picked up our anniversary photo from the wall.
George and I among the rose bushes he planted with his own hands.
They’d bloomed deep red that summer. Now they were bare.

Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll call the lawyer.
If I was the only one who came to say goodbye, I would be the only one to decide what goodbye meant.

That evening, I poured another glass—not from sorrow, but from resolve.
I went to George’s desk, opened the top drawer.
The folder was there, labeled in his careful block letters: ESTATE.

Inside: our will, beneficiary lists, instructions for every account, even who should inherit the antique clock from Dublin. We’d prepared it all two years ago. With love. With foresight.

Peter was co-beneficiary of the main investment account—three hundred thousand dollars, a lifetime of careful saving.
Celia and he would share the house.
The lake cabin too, though neither had visited it in years.

My fingers trembled as I turned the pages—not from age, but something sharper.
Betrayal has a pulse. Mine thundered in my ears.

I opened the storage bin in the closet.
Old photos spilled like ghosts: birthdays, fishing trips, Christmas mornings.
George lifting the children, his face full and open.
I stared at that young man who believed his love would always be enough.

Then I picked up the phone.

“Thomas? It’s May Holloway. I need to revise my will. Urgently.”

I didn’t cry that night.
Instead, I slept lightly, hearing the creak of the house like the memory of his breath.
When morning came, the roses outside had dropped their last petals.
I trimmed them back. Pruning steadies the hand; it tells you what to keep, what to let go.